


vexilla regis prodeunt inferni

by thebetterbina



Series: the devil is not as black as he is painted [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Disturbing Themes, Harry is a Little Shit, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Vatican, harry is the demon he summons, might continue but who knows, tom is a vatican priest, underaged themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: “You gave up your faith to me, father. You won’t be able to bless things anymore, holy water won’t be holy under your hands, the scriptures you speak will be from the mouth of a false prophet.” Some syrup must get on his fingers, Tom watches the boy idly suck the sugar from delicate fingertips. “You’re a walking contradiction now, it’s hysterical for demon-folk like me.”Tom is a Vatican priest, Harry is his demon. The title roughly translates to'The banners of the king of Hell advance.'
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: the devil is not as black as he is painted [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677247
Comments: 10
Kudos: 118





	vexilla regis prodeunt inferni

**Author's Note:**

> beta done by my wife, [liz ♡](https://twitter.com/lizardayo)
> 
> spitting out more fics than i can manage, part two of that violinist au is coming up! in the meantime pls hab this snack

_Through me is the way to the city of woe.  
_ _Through me is the way to sorrow eternal.  
_ _Through me is the way to the lost below.  
_ _Justice moved my architect supernal.  
_ _I was constructed by divine power,  
_ _supreme wisdom, and love primordial.  
_ _Before me no created things were.  
_ _Save those eternal, and eternal I abide.  
_ _Abandon all hope, you who enter._

* * *

Tom wakes to a splitting ache in his brow and the impotence of not being able to clarify his thoughts. Which is … _wrong_ in itself because Tom knows what a hangover feels like—and he’d sworn off it from his college days—so there’s no reason for feeling like every stab of sunlight was an attempt at making his head bleed. 

Still, the sound of something frying in his kitchen does get his attention, so he has to pry his eyes open, however slowly it takes. It’s a blessing there’s water by his bedside when he does sit up. There’s a pill too that he blindly fumbles for, and the first sip of water is a balm over the thundering headache. 

Bacon, he smells _bacon_ coming from the kitchen, which is strange, all of his memories of this house never included cooking. He briefly considers an intruder and—

Tom doubles over the floor, the memories rushing him.

* * *

_The shadows, they dance._

_They dance and they whisper, and Tom’s eyes struggle to follow every movement from the gaping depths of the dark. There is laughter, children’s, then it changes to a harsh, deep, throaty chuckle of a man—he thinks he hears the sound of a beast’s growl too, all before it turns to the cackling of a hag. The cacophony of noise, the crescendo of it all raises his hackles, instils fear, a deep-rooted terror in his heart which he suspects is the aim._

_Then all movement stops, and for a moment there is silence. A creature among the twitching shadows speaks, it’s voice a low hiss._

_"͏A̕ ̕pr͡ie͠st?͝ ̵H̷o̡w in̵t̨erest͠i҉n͠g, ͘n̴o lon̸ger p̵io̶us are͠ ͝w̢e,̢ ͡f͠a͡th̕er҉?"_

_He swallows, were he a lesser man, Tom thinks he might be faint. “Demon,” Because there’s no other way to refer to the creature—the thing—he’s summoned (welcomed) into his home. “I ask for a contract.”_

_"I̶ ̢s͢ee҉ ͘your ҉h͠eart̡, I see ͢y̡o̸ur͢ gre͏e͘d͘.̵ All͡ ̛hu̵man͝s̢ ar̷e͟ ͟th͝e sąm̵e. Therefore, wha̸t w̛i҉ll you̧ ̢gi͟ve m͠e͝ i͢n̵ ŗe̵turn?"̶_

_He gets nervous at this part, genuinely nervous. He’s seen the aftermath of far too many cases of demon summoning gone awry—either due to the temperament of the demon being too unstable to reason with, or the demon getting offended by the offer. Too little, Tom knows he’ll die. Too much, and Tom won’t have much of himself left after the contract is sealed._

_“Faith. I give you my faith.”_

_A beat … then laughter. Shrill, pitched terrifyingly high laughter that rings in his ears so loudly he has to cover them. The laughter doesn’t seem to have an end, then between giggles he hears it, his confirmation._

_"I ̴accep̛t yo͜ur ̕offer͞. D͟o n̡o̕t di̛sa͟ppoint me,͘ ̨f͝ath҉er.̢"̨_

_Tom only remembers satisfaction, the very briefest amount, before all strength leaves his body, and the woodwork floors come up to meet his face._

* * *

There is a boy in his kitchen.

There is a boy in his kitchen, cooking. He apparently has to use a step-ladder to reach the stove, which if it were any other situation Tom would find hilarious, but considering his already addled brain he has questions. Questions that he tries to voice, but the most sound that comes out of him is a weak cough, the back of his throat dry and itchy.

“I’ve prepared tea, I hope you like peppermint.”

The voice is … sweet, delicate, _soft_ . Everything he’d expect of a child of his stature, and it’s as the boy says. he table, formerly dilapidated and coated with dust, looked clean for once, with a proper tablecloth over it and small dishes of bread, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms scattered across. There’s pancakes too, with maple syrup next to it _—_ a carton of milk sits in another corner with a filled jug of juice. There are plates set for two, and Tom takes the only chair at the table with a teacup next to his plate, a small pot steaming nearby.

“I’m just finishing the eggs.” 

He can’t do much beyond sit and stare, stare at the child that fumbles a little with the frying pan before managing to plate the food. Dark head of curls gently swaying with each movement, he watches the boy carefully move back off the step-ladder and turn, a smile on his face as he puts the dish of a perfect omelette on the table before taking his apron off and seating himself directly opposite to Tom.

He has green eyes, glittering green, _captivating_ emerald eyes. 

“You’re making me feel self-conscious now, is how I look not pleasing?”

Tom blinks. He makes a sound, something of a wheezing-cough, finally caving in to touch the tea prepared and is actually surprised by how well it’s brewed, before he speaks.

“No, I—” He stops, considering his words. “I wasn’t sure what form you’d take.”

The child smiles, and there’s nothing inherently wicked about the smile either, it’s a grin like any other child, Tom thinks, watching him pile his plate with the prepared food. Tom hesitantly reaches for a roll of bread, his stomach finally making its hunger known as the demon speaks.

“I will take the form of whatever best suits the contract’s needs. I saw the papers you left near the ritual circle—shortly after you’d passed out, that is.”

Tom flushes at the reminder, though the demon says it without heat so he has to assume it’s normal enough. He struggles a bit to think about what papers the boy is talking about before— _ah_ , the forged adoption papers. The one he’d painstakingly worked on when he had decided he’d contract a demon. Idly, he takes a bite of the bread, and the buttered toast is a burst of flavour on his tongue.

(It was hard finding a woman who had fit his criteria. He needed someone who lived away from people, in a village the Vatican wouldn’t even think twice about visiting. Merope Potter was perfect in that sense—shunned by her own village for being so ugly, who’s own supposed fiancee had abandoned her with a newborn that shortly died from an unknown illness during the long winter, Merope following the season after.

Merope was to be his long-lost sister. A tragic tale of a woman abandoned with a boy left in the world, she’d pleaded Tom would take her boy in. Her child, Tom’s nephew.) 

Still, and he glances back up at the child again, taking stock of the features—soft around the edges, still round with baby fat but on the cusps of adolescence. It’s eerie, but Tom can see the mirror of his own childhood in the face, eyes notwithstanding. 

“Why did I pass out?”

He has to ask, even while the boy looks annoyed at having to put down the bite of omelette he was about to take. 

“Forming the contract took energy, and I need energy to sustain my existence in this world.” The demon takes a full bite of soft creamy egg, chewing delightedly and swallowing before speaking again. “You might feel tired for the first few days, it’ll pass. You’re healthy enough anyways.”

Tom feels like scowling down at the bread, managing a few days of feeling persistently hungover didn’t sound attractive. His emotions must show because the demon clicks his tongue.

“Well, deal with it, that’s what you get for never clarifying the terms.” 

“And … what exactly are the details of the contract?”

The boy has his plate piled with pancakes now, which is drenched in an unholy amount of syrup Tom thinks would be enough to drown the confectionary. 

Jewelled eyes glance up at him, coy under dark lashes as he grins, “You gave up your _faith_ to me, father. You won’t be able to bless things anymore, holy water won’t be holy under your hands, the scriptures you speak will be from the mouth of a false prophet.” Some syrup must get on his fingers, Tom watches the boy idly suck the sugar from delicate fingertips. “You’re a walking contradiction now, it’s _hysterical_ for demon-folk like me.”

His hold on the teacup tightens more than necessary, he’d accounted for that, he knew what being faithless meant—but hearing it confirmed was another thing entirely. “Then what will you do in return?”

The boy must be done eating, he pushes the cleaned out plate in front of himself, knife and fork parallel to each other and angled to the side of the plate. 

“Why, I’ll do just as your heart had so wished! I’ll perform ... _miracles_ at your stead. Healing incurable illnesses, exorcising demons—it’s what you wanted, yes? To be recognized. Known. I can do that for you. Isn’t that nice of me? And all you had to give up was your faith.” He giggles, actually giggles. “Well, your faith and some energy of course. I can’t feed myself on human meals as tasty as they are.”

Reality is a stone stab, heavy and suffocating. He’d sold himself, sold his faith, beliefs, everything he’d once held close—to a demon. A creature of the dark, to the child sitting opposite him with beautiful eyes and a wicked smirk. 

The food on the table is barely half-finished, but he can’t bother to eat anything else.

“Oh, there’s the last bit I was waiting until you’d woken up to finish—my name.”

Tom remembers, Merope hadn’t registered or named her child before she had passed. And that made it altogether easy to fabricate the existence of a child who’d been born in that quiet little town. Should any officials make any inquiry to the actual locals, of course, the name wouldn’t be mentioned. But if it was just paperwork then …

“Harry Potter.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm active [on my Twitter](https://twitter.com/therealconnor60)! (´,,•ω•,,)♡


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